Pirates of the Caribbean: Isla de Almas Perdidas
by Indigo Blue.x
Summary: Destiny plays a large part in many tales. Rum plays a large part in this one. Adventure, humour, mystery, romance, drama
1. 1: The Storm of Souls

**Pirates of the Caribbean: Isla de Almas Perdidas -Indigo Blue**

**Summary:**

**Before the beginning- why the Black Pearl was raised from the depths of the ocean, why Jack bartered his compass from Tia Dalma, when he got that pirate brand, and how he ended up owing his soul to Davy Jones. This is a tale of adventure, mystery, love, betrayal, humour, desire, and rum. Even desire _for_ rum, once or twice. **(See my profile for more).

**Explanation:**

**This fic does _not_ take into account the version of Jack's earlier life as told in the video game (though some of them could potentially apply). The only facts I have used are the ones in the actual films (Curse of the Black Pearl and Dead Man's Chest). The story is set thirteen years before DMC, and before Jack was captain. At the start of this chapter, he is first mate. Also- this is the prologue, so relatively short.**

**.X**

**Chapter One: The Storm of Souls (Prologue)**

Before the beginning, Jack Sparrow was just like any other man. Well, perhaps not _any_ other man. He was particularly charming, uncommonly clever, and he also happened to be a pirate, which was not generally considered to be a wise career move. And yet Jack was singularly uninterested in what other people thought; instead he cared only about the indigo-blue moment when sea became sky, and the salty taste of freedom.

It was a night in which the indigo seemed somewhat stronger than the blue when Jack swung down from the crow's nest of the Black Pearl to warn the captain that –in his professional opinion- a storm was on the way, and perhaps they should head towards land? It was Jack's misfortune that, upon delivering this speech, he was politely advised to shut the hell up and drink his rum. And it was perhaps a testament to Jack's character that, rather than worrying unduly, he shut the hell up and drank rum with the best of them.

Destiny plays a large part in many tales. Rum plays a large part in this one.

.X

'We're sinking!'

Jack swung around too fast, and staggered as rough, cold rope scorched his hands. 'We're not bloody _sinking_!' he bellowed, gesturing in the vague direction of whoever had shouted. 'This ship doesn't _sink_! And- we've not even hit the bloody rocks yet!' The deck lurched wildly under his feet as a silver-black torrent of sea water swamped the Pearl, and he grabbed desperately onto the side, feeling the familiar knots and splinters under his fingers as he struggled to stay on his feet.

Lightning tore through the sky, illuminating the next heavy wave with a strange sort of grandeur. For the briefest of moments, Jack forgot how to breathe; this was the sort of performance he could have watched for hours- preferably in a warm, dimly lit tavern on the mainland, with a tankard of rum in his hand and a pretty woman on his knee. As it was, he had none of the above criteria, and all he felt now was the icy water dragging at his very bones. He swore loudly at it, but even his curses were drowned by the next peal of thunder, and the cruel wrenching sound every sailor dreads.

Jack hesitated upon not-hearing his own varied and inventive swearwords. 'Probably just as well,' he concluded. 'Not everyone could _do_ that with a figurehead.'

The cry of 'abandon ship' struck with a sharpness rivalled only by the knife-like blades of torrential rain. As if the words were a signal, Jack turned his back on the furious wind and launched himself down the cracked and worn deck, skidding down to the helm. With a horrible rush of realisation, it occurred to him that ships were generally supposed to stay level, and if the quarter-deck of the Pearl was plunging into the hungry black waves, it could only mean that they were indeed-

'This ship doesn't sink,' Jack repeated, with a lot less conviction than previously. All the same, his actions became a little faster and more desperate as he wrenched the cabin door open, only vaguely aware of the shouts and screams around him before the door slammed back down.

The ghostly silence of the half-submerged cabin was enough to unnerve even Jack, as he waded in. He took one last gasp of air before ducking under the surface; the saltwater stung his open eyes as he wrestled a key from the loop on his belt. He had only time to think that he should have unhooked the key _before_ going underwater when it came free, and he pushed it into the door of the tall wooden cabinet on his left.

After a moment's fumbling, the cupboard burst open- Jack's lungs were starting to protest fiercely- he struggled to open a small mahogany chest- and his fingers grazed the bottom as they closed around the item within.

Jack burst out of the water, gasping for breath. Staggering back out of the cabin, he was immediately crushed by another violent torrent of seawater; this one hurling him across the submerged ship, off his feet. His free hand clung to the edge as the sheer pressure swung him sideways and slammed him into the side, legs dangling over the churning sea, framed against the ripped edges of the sky.

His eyes, which had closed automatically, opened briefly as Jack found himself face to face with an inanimate figure- the figurehead of the Black Pearl. Her wooden face was upturned and streaked from weather, her hair drawn back, and one hand was outstretched desperately as the other clutched her heart.

Jack's own hands slipped from the ship edge; he was running out of time. Looking into the wooden eyes of the figurehead, his mouth moved silently for a moment, working against the cold. 'May- may Davy Jones have mercy on the soul of-' briefly, Jack recalled the Captain being hurled across the decks. If he was dead, then surely Jack, as first mate, was- '-of my ship,' Jack finished. 'Bloody bastard that he is,' he added as an afterthought.

As the new captain of the Black Pearl plunged into the icy black waters below, one slow pearly raindrop ran gently down the cheek of the wooden figurehead.


	2. 2: Not All Treasure Is Silver And Gold

**Pirates of the Caribbean: Isla de Almas Perdidas**

**Indigo Blue**

**Author's Note: **Firstly, big hugs to the fabulous **shotgunxwedding** and **twadrummer** for the reviews (:happy dances:). Thanks also to **Din'sBlaze** for adding me to favourites, even though you didn't review. You have all made a little girl very happy, haha.

To make things clear for this chapter and the rest of the fic; Jack doesn't yet have the MAGIQUE compass or his hat. I hope this makes sense cause I've been writing little bits separately over the past month (my writing habits are kind of erratic) and had to piece them together later. If you think I should explain something more or if it doesn't make sense, just tell me in a review and I'll try to edit it.

**Chapter Two: Not All Treasure Is Silver And Gold**

It had never occurred to Anamaria that the wind could be anything other than invisible, unless you could see it billowing against rough, white sails. And yet, the wind this morning had been silver; silver and violet and emerald, and while –she reasoned- it had most probably been the sunlight reflecting off specks of dust, it had seemed almost magical. It was the kind of wind that had blown Jack Sparrow back to Tortuga, be it on a little merchant boat that had picked him up far out to see. And now, the man himself was sat across the table from her in the Faithful Bride, with an unrecognisable expression which she could only guess was… defeat?

She hardened her own expression, ignoring any more half-formed, foolish thoughts, and then softened it again. It was hard to know how to deal with Jack.

Jack who was now drumming his fingers on his filthy bottle of rum.

Repeatedly.

Anamaria gritted her teeth and tried to remember what she had been about to say. 'Look,' she settled for, 'at least you're alive. When I heard the Pearl had gone down I thought you must've…' she paused, reached over, and yanked the bottle from his hand. The amber liquid splashed against the glass as she set it down roughly, '…died, or something. Everyone said- oh Jack, stop making that face, you can have it back if you stop tapping.'

Jack, who was now looking decidedly sulky, pulled the rum back across the table and tilted it to his lips. 'My dear Anamaria,' he said impressively, and despite herself she couldn't help feeling immensely relieved that he was back, for whatever reason, 'there are greater things on my mind than rum- or the absence of it.' He shot her a dirty look before leaning forward dramatically. 'I,' he raised his voice, 'am Captain Jack Sparrow-'

'You can't be a captain if you don't have a ship,' Anamaria said, before she could stop herself.

Jack looked even more put out. 'I _will_ have a ship,' he informed her, 'I haven't finished yet.' He adopted his dramatic tone again. 'As I said, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow-'

'But not _really_.'

He narrowed his eyes. 'I'm Captain Jack-'

She coughed.

'-Sparrow, and I have no intention of continuing while my ship is on the bottom of the ocean.'

Anamaria sighed. 'What are you going to do, swim down and get it?'

Jack grinned wickedly, and Anamaria wondered how she could ever have thought he looked defeated- not with that dark glint in his eyes. 'Close, luv.' He reached across with a curious elegance and placed his hand on the table. It was closed into a tight fist, and she wondered briefly if that was supposed to present some sort of clue- but before she could consider it, he turned his hand over and opened it.

For a moment, Anamaria stared at it. It was obvious that Jack was a sailor- the hand was rough, and so brown it blended into the much stained table, and it was wrapped in some filthy rag, god knew why. And yet it was what was in the centre of his palm that Jack was nodding cheerfully at, flashing several gold teeth.

Anamaria raised her eyebrows. 'It's a stone.'

'Wrong!' Jack said triumphantly, holding it up. 'This is,' he lowered his voice,' a _pearl_.'

There was a long pause while she wondered if she'd missed something. 'Pearls are white.'

'No no no,' he waved it about. '_This_ pearl is black. Savvy?'

Anamaria couldn't help it; her face began to slide into a slow imitation of Jack's own lazy grin. 'A black pearl. You got this off your ship, before it sank?' He nodded, encouraging her on, and she tried to guess what her next question should be. 'And it's going to get your ship _back_?'

'Ah,' he turned his hand back over, the pearl pinned to the table. 'Your guess is as good as mine, darlin'. But watch.'

The two stared at the pearl as Jack slowly lifted his hand, silent but for the steady backdrop of drunken laughter and song weaving round the rest of the tavern. For a minute, the pearl stayed motionless on the table top, gleaming innocently in the golden candle-light, and then, as if it were making a dash for freedom, it rolled quickly across the grooved and dirty wood to the edge-

Jack slammed his hand back over it. 'Hold it,' he told her, dropping it into her outstretched palm.

She closed her fingers slowly over it- it was strangely warm, as if it had been left lying in the sun all day- and immediately understood. There was a strange… _something_… straining against her grip; an invisible force tugging the pearl across, away…

'Are you going to follow it?'

'Aye,' he grinned.

'And it leads to…?'

'Haven't a clue, luv. Hopefully something valuable.' He gestured extravagantly with both hands, and she reluctantly passed the pearl back to him and watched him drop it into the pocket of his coat.

Anamaria thought for a moment while Jack swigged carelessly from his bottle of rum, watching the soft half-light throw his high cheekbones and dark-rimmed eyes into shadow. 'How are you going to leave Tortuga without a boat?' she asked thoughtfully, digging her nails into the ridges of the battered table.

'I'll get a boat.' He waved a dismissive hand.

She narrowed her eyes. 'If you're even thinking of taking _The Mon_...' The Jolly Mon was Anamaria's pride and joy, and she knew Jack well enough to know he wouldn't think twice of sailing off in it.

'_The Mon_'s too small,' he mumbled unconcernedly. 'I want a crew.'

This wasn't exactly what Anamaria considered a promising reply, but the golden light on Jack's face made him look almost angelic, and she decided to trust him anyway. 'If you need a crew, you're in the right place. Give it a couple of hours; sailors jump ship here all the time.'

Jack nodded and opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted as the table jerked under his elbows. The next minute he blinked as a woman who had been twenty-one for many years lounged across it, her chest at his direct eyelevel. He eyed it appreciatively.

'Ello darling,' she crooned, raised painted-on eyebrows. 'What can I do you for?'

Jack paused, perhaps while he tried to remember her name. 'Sorry luv,' he said eventually, 'business as usual. Don't want anyone over-hearing.' He attempted a roguish smile, so as not to offend her.

The woman pouted an unnaturally scarlet mouth. 'Ol Jack don't have time for us no more, girls!' "Girls" was pushing it a bit far, thought Anamaria privately- she herself was easily the youngest in the tavern. The woman dropped her voice before continuing. 'If you don't want no one overhearing, you're not gettin very far here; them buggers there've been listening to ev'ry word you two said for the past half hour.' She jerked her head to the left.

Anamaria looked up just in time to see three or four men vanish into the noise and mess of Tortuga, before glancing back at Jack, who seemed supremely unconcerned.

'Looks like the crew from _the Sea's Deceit_ to me,' he said lazily, waving a hand rather unnecessarily. 'Didn't know they were in Tortuga at the moment… No worries, mate. Although,' he nodded to Anamaria as the other woman melted into the crowd, 'it seems to me that this intrusion indicates we have a prevailing need to adapt our current interaction to one of a less secretive –or lucrative- nature; what say you?'

He said all this very fast. Anamaria blinked at him.

'Let's stop talking quests and pearls and find me a crew, eh?' he translated. 'You know just about everyone in this sorry excuse of a place; lead the way.'

.X

Against an electric turquoise sea, the hull of a small ship sliced through the diamond-laced foam. The ship was entirely unremarkable except for its age; the wood was stained and pitted, yet the sails were clumsily patched and some one –in a rare moment of aesthetic pride- had attempted to shine up the rusted nameplate. Now, the dazzling sunshine glanced off the brass, highlighting the words 'The Sea's Deceit'.

The crew, on deck, seemed to have unusually little to do; it was an ideal day for sailing, or (hypothetically, of course) trying to get as far away from Tortuga as possible before the _real_ crew of the ship in question realised it was you who'd sailed away in their livelihood and came after you to stick their swords in uncomfortable places. Should anyone have a reason to do that.

Jack Sparrow, who _was_ a man with reason to do that, ran a casual hand over the ship's wheel, half-closing his eyes against the sun with a rather cat-like expression of satisfaction on his face.

'Land ahoy!'

As if one cue, the eyes flicked open again and darted sideways. Without answering, Jack pulled the pearl from his pocket and held it flat on his palm, snapping his hand closed around it before wheeling round to face the crew. He conjured a glittering smile onto his face.

'Gentlemen,' he announced dramatically, 'I believe we've found what we were looking for.'

The effect of this was somewhat lessened as Jack found himself at chest-level of a nameless man- a member of his crew, certainly, but with a hostile expression engraved onto worn-leather skin. Jack tilted his head in a way that could constitute a defiant gesture but was more likely an attempt to match the other man's height, and took a surreptious step backwards. 'Aye?'

'This land,' the sailor growled immediately, disregarding any unnecessary preliminaries such as "hello Captain" or "sorry for sneaking up behind you like that".

'Yes,' Jack agreed politely, attempting to duck round him. 'Land. Excellent.'

The man didn't move. 'Aye, but Jack- '

'Captain,' Jack corrected him.

'But ye're not _really_ a-' he was met with a glare. 'As ye wish. _Captain_. But this land- it isn't on the map. There be no records of any island here.'

Jack paused, hands frozen in midair like a lonely puppeteer. 'You must be looking at the wrong map, mate.' He gestured sideways, one hand dancing towards the inky stain on the horizon. 'I can see the bloody land with me own eyes, and that's good enough for me.'

The man looked mutinous, and brandished the map as threateningly as it was possible to wave a piece of paper. Jack caught barely a glimpse of spidery ink trails and inconsequential letters before it was replaced by the yellowed creases of his challenger's face. 'By the power then, would it be _good enough for ye_ to let me use that fine compass a' yours?'

Jack opened his mouth to add 'Captain' on the end, but reconsidered and closed it again. 'Yes,' he offered meekly, holding it out with a cheerful smile and flipping it open with his thumb.'

The man stared at the instrument without even taking it. 'Afeared as I be ter be the one to tell you,' "_Captain," _Jack added mentally. And was that sarcasm? '…but that compass… ain't pointing North.'

'What?' Jack held it up to his face and studied it critically, closing one eye at a time. 'Must be. S'your bloody navigating that's the problem here, Barbara.'

'Barbossa.'

'Bless you. Check the direction with Twigg- there is _nothing_ wrong with my compass. And there is _especially_ nothing wrong with that island. Now if you'll just…' he attached the compass back to his belt and swept a somewhat patronizing hand down the deck. Glowering, the older man turned abruptly on his heel and stormed towards the rest of the crew, electric sunlight sparking angrily off the back of his hair and beard.

Jack watched him go distractedly, before turning back to the sunbleached sea, towards the island that wasn't there, eyes unfocussed. He would have to keep an eye on that man, he reflected. Was it really so hard to remember who the Captain was?

He lifted a thoughtful hand to his head and touched a dark, matted dreadlock.

Perhaps he should get a hat.


	3. 3: Shipshaped

**Pirates of the Caribbean: Isla de Almas Perdidas**

**Indigo Blue.x**

**Author's Note: **So presumably I wasn't the only person to think I'd never get around to continuing this fic? To be honest I've not written a word of fiction since last November, when I did NaNoWriMo… which seemed to put me off for the next seven months, heh. Well I saw 'At World's End' last Friday, and it got me thinking about writing again. Thanks to **Rising Star 10101 **(whose review reminded me of this story's existence, actually)**, twadrummer, tresdrole, shotgunxwedding, jla2snoopy **and** Ms xDivine** for the reviews

**Chapter Three: Ship-shaped**

The mist was very convenient, Jack thoughts critically, surveying the white-gold beach and faded line of sketchy trees decorating The Island That Shouldn't Have Been There. It gave the distinct impression that some omnipotent artist had begun drawing the land, decided halfway through that no one would come close enough to inspect it, and swept a charcoal veil of mist over the remainder to save time. He dug the scuffed toe of a boat into the sand reflectively, watching it stream from the salt-hardened leather in a perfectly choreographed wave.

The sand shifted guiltily under his gaze, swept into swirling patterns by an optimistic wind.

Jack gave it a hard look to let it know that he still wasn't entirely convinced before turning his attentions back to the crew, who were stood looking dubious by the now-moored _Sea's Deceit_.

'Right then,' he announced, before he'd had time to even consider what he was going to say. 'If you feel you can all entertain yourselves for a short while, I'll be exploring this fine island. Meet the locals, show them a good time, that sort of thing.' He closed his fist automatically around the pearl in his pocket, then recoiled slightly – the surface was hot, burning through the material.

'What if there're savages?' a crew member objected. After the shock of the pearl, Jack had to pause a moment to remember what he was talking about, which the man obviously saw as a cue to continue. 'Ye could be attacked, Jack. Captain. At least a group of us should go.'

Jack held up a hand. 'I see where you're taking this. _You_ think we should get the neighbours round, bring the rum, be off on a merry voyage round this aforementioned scrap of land, get like-as-not attacked by a group of less than friendly natives, and scurry back to our charming ship here to find that due to not leaving a loyal crew here armed with cutlasses and cannons and whatnot-' he took a quick breath, '-the natives in general have seized their happy opportunity to commandeer our stately vessel, _complete_ with swords and pistols. And rum. At which point, at the mercy of such savages, we would probably be,' he hesitated for effect, 'eaten.'

He was met by a sea of blank faces.

'The alternative,' he added, 'is for _me_ to go off adventuring, _you_ lot hold base down here while I ascertain who seems friendly and who cannibalistic, _I _return with the know-how, and then we all go off for the interesting bit, get your treasure and such-like, and cut down anyone in our paths. Savvy?' One man nodded slowly, so Jack seized on him. 'In my short term absence, if you would be so kind…' he struggled for the name, '…Shoelace, you can be in charge. Wearing the hat, so to speak. The metaphorical hat.'

'Bootstrap,' the man began, before another interrupted.

'Aye, but what should we _do_ here?'

Jack, who was now squinting near his foot, wondering what exactly was wrong with his bootstrap, waved an airy hand. 'Poker?'

**.X**

Something had changed since Jack had sat opposite Anamaria in the Faithful Bride. For starters, his right hand was now heavily bandaged in the length of dust coloured material otherwise tied several times around his waist as he held it out in front of him, seeming disproportionate to his lean, brown arms in their rolled up shirt sleeves. And on top of this provisional cushion, balanced in the folds, was the black pearl. It was burning hot now; so much that when he had tried to hold it at first it had scorched Jack's well-worn skin, and now it lay proudly, gleaming like onyx in the hot sun.

The crew had remained at the ship after all, not daring to defy Jack's bewildering logic when it came to matters cannibalistic. Whether they were playing poker was another thing entirely, although the last thing he'd seen before he'd marched off had been Bootstrap trying to teach the rest of them a game involving far too many dice and no snakes or ladders whatsoever. This, Jack had decided, was probably not something he wanted to be involved in anyway.

His feet stopped.

A couple of seconds later the rest of his body caught up, and he realised the difference. The persistent, invisible pull that the pearl had been exerting since the moment Jack had found his feet back on deck following the sinking of his ship- had stopped.

There was a long, cold moment as Jack shrugged the makeshift bandage from his hand, letting it slither to the sand as he cupped the jewel in both fists as if it were one of Bootstrap's dices. As if his destiny rested in this one throw. The heat had gone, like it had never existed, and for one moment the pearl was just another ordinary thing in a world full of them. Something else that had promised adventure, that had seemed so real when he had convinced Anamaria that here was another fairy-tale to follow. The latest adventure of would-be-Captain Jack Sparrow. A jewel that could have bought him another world of stories.

Jack was not a pessimist, and in another moment the feeling was gone.

'Go on then,' he told the pearl in his hand softly. His breath rebounded off his skin and came back hot. 'Show me.'

His worn boots circled and crossed each other, leaving a figure of eight scuffed into the sand as Jack turned slowly, squinting into the uncomfortable mist. He looked almost like he was dancing without a partner, or practising his footwork for a fight, but for the fact he was alone on an uneasy beach.

But perhaps, perhaps he was not so alone.

There was a brief second in which his eyes alighted on a dark figure slumped on the shoreline before his sword was in his hand and he was darting in a sort of exaggerated tiptoe across the dusty sand. His unsheathed blade sliced through the haze before him –he held it at arms length when it seemed he was about to mutilate himself- and his other arm was held up in the air just in a nod to the unnecessary gesture. It was not exactly a stance designed for fighting, but then again there seemed relatively little threat; the figure was small, perhaps a seal or dog, and more pressingly, it looked slightly dead.

Jack stopped for the second time to take in exactly what he was seeing.

'What the…' he murmured, his voice low and rough.

He dropped to a crouch with his head tilted to one side, letting his sword slide to the ground by his feet with a muffled thud. A hand, heavy with rings and wrapped in a frayed black rag, hesitated in midair before he decided he might be wiser not to touch the figure and let it drop back to graze the sand. Instead he picked up his sword again and poked it carefully with the blunt end.

The figure swore at him.

Jack immediately felt less concerned.

'The question is, darling, what are _you_ doing here?' he answered with a smirk, abandoning both sword and pearl together on the ground in order to get a better look. It was, it transpired, neither a seal nor a dog- rather, a young woman lying stretched out on her side. One arm was out-stretched as if reaching for something while the other crossed her chest where it was clenched in a fist over her heart, yet there was something a little wooden in her posture, as if she had fallen awkwardly. She wore a well patched black dress of a rough material –almost like canvas, almost like a sail- that was saturated and darkened with water from where she lay on the tide line. And yet, there was something achingly familiar about her – but how could there be, with her face half hidden by salt-starched curls of dark red hair? It was as if, Jack thought suddenly, she was someone he had seen out of the corner of his eye every day of his life but never really noticed.

This worried him, so he poked her in the ribs again.

'If you do that again,' she said through gritted teeth, still not opening her eyes, 'I will bind you to the mast and cut off every one of your toes one by one, and then I will feed them to the sharks while you watch, at which point I will carve out your still-beating heart and _eat it_ before leaving your bloody carcass rotting on the shore where the gulls will pluck out your eyeballs. Do you understand?'

Jack considered this.

'It would be more effective, in my professional opinion,' he suggested, 'if you let the gulls pluck out my eyeballs before you ate my heart. Otherwise I'd miss the ending, which would be a bit of a tragedy since you put so much effort in, eh?'

The one eye he could see flashed open and revealed itself to be a bright, sea green. 'I thought that was quite good, for the spur of the moment.'

'Not bad,' he agreed, inclining his head. 'And it's a shame we can't make a day of it, but it seems I have inadvertently found the cannibalistic native I was warned so earnestly against, so if you'll excuse me-'

She sat up suddenly in a wooden, stiff movement, as if she wasn't quite expecting it herself. The side of her face that was against the ground was covered in a dust of pale sand, and grains clung to her thin, weather-marked arms, but it was those bright green eyes that caught his own. He saw, in fact, the exact moment that the panic filled them.

'Oh _no_,' she said.

It was not particularly unusual for young women to wake up next to Jack Sparrow with this particular reaction, but usually he had done something to warrant it. He was torn between feeling rather hurt, and being relieved at being back on familiar ground. However, since she hadn't slapped him yet, he decided to let it go by.

'Yes, I'm afraid so,' he agreed over his shoulder –he was back on his feet now and beating a jaunty retreat. 'Not to worry though, eh?'

'Jack Sparrow,' she said.

He stopped for a brief moment, his back still to her, before turning slightly. His air of casual amusement had faded slightly, ebbing into the bottomless darkness of his black rimmed eyes. The wind caught at the length of material round his waist, the corners of his coat, his heavy lengths of dark hair. He looked- he looked like a pirate. A man who could, and would, kill without a second thought.

'Now,' he said in a voice all the more dangerous for its offhand tone, 'that's not a name you're supposed to know, is it?'

She didn't reply, just sat stiffly on the sand staring at him.

'That makes me wonder,' he continued, his words velvety, 'what else you know about my being here, and what with me being a gentlemanly soul I'm sure you're going to take a moment to explain yourself now, so I'll just wait,' he took a step back towards her, 'one,' he took another step, 'minute.'

She jerked into life again, scrambling to her feet and throwing one arm out towards him as if hoping to stop him in his tracks. 'No,' she said breathlessly, 'I-'

There was no need to continue.

They stood opposite each other. Her face was upturned to match his height, burned and freckled by the sun and streaked with the spray of salt water. Her hair pushed back. Her arm outstretched. And he realised how he knew her.

'You're the figurehead,' he said, in what could almost pass for a reverent whisper. 'You're the Pearl.' Her arm dropped loosely to her side once again and he paused.

The truth was, he had hoped the black pearl would lead him back to his ship. Or else, something fairly valuable that would achieve the same general result. He hadn't counted on his ship being alive, or female, or no-longer-made-of-wood. Or looking at him with desperate, accusing green eyes as her chest heaved breathlessly in a rather, er, becoming way. And yet he knew it was her, just as he had run his hand over the wheel of the _Sea's Deceit_ earlier and known it wasn't the same. Ships have _spirit_. His fingers rubbed the surface of the pearl unconsciously now.

'What's that?' she asked, noticing immediately.

Automatically dishonest, Jack feigned surprise and squinted at the jewel. 'This?' he repeated. 'This… this is a maritime snack,' he decided. 'Good for… scurvy.'

He popped it in his mouth to avoid suspicion, swallowed, and grinned charmingly at her. 'It has come to my attention,' he announced, his voice lighter, 'that you are a young lady marooned on a distant island all by your onesie, and might easily –and tragically- fall prey to marauding pirates and general wrong-doers if left by your vulnerable self, hmm?'

She looked suspicious. Probably he was the first marauding pirate and general wrong-doer she'd come across since she'd been there.

'I propose,' he continued quickly, to stop her dwelling on that too long, 'that you come aboard with my delightful group of… respectable, law-abiding adventure seekers, and join the crew, what say you? Temporarily,' he added when she seemed about to answer. 'A woman aboard, terrible bad luck, we'll probably sink. Again. All that.'

Another hesitation. 'How are you- how did you get here?' she asked, guardedly.

Jack looked more than a little affronted at the question. 'I borrowed a ship,' he informed her importantly. 'Contrary to popular belief, there is indeed more than one in the Caribbean. People were falling over themselves to lend them to me. Very popular man,' he added with a gesture to himself, by way of explanation.

'Where is it?'

He flourished a hand in its general direction. 'That-a-way.' A pause while they stared each other out again. 'After you.'

He waited till she'd trudged past him down the beach before allowing his lips to curve into a wickedly audacious smile. 'Oh, Tia,' he addressed the air softly, watching his ship walk off. Even from behind he could tell she didn't trust him. 'You'd better give me a good answer for this one, luv.'

He paused suddenly, as if he'd only just remembered something, and then coughed throatily, twice.

The pearl dropped into his open hand.

Jack smiled.


End file.
